I may be done was summer, but thankfully, God is not done with me. And what memories I have about Him.

You know when you have had enough of something and you do not want to
see any of it anymore. Well, that is what I think about summer. I've
had enough of summer and I want to move on with my life.
It's not that I dislike summer. I love summer. I just don't want summer
all the time. As far as I am concerned, a little bit of good weather
goes a long way with me.
Don't get me wrong here; summer is my favorite time of the year.
However, the reason it is my favorite time of the year is that when it
is over I have some jolly wonderful memories of summer. I have those
memories of summer still lingering on and I want to share them.
When you get my age, memories are very important. At my age, I can have
what is called “selective memory.” I am not quite sure who come up with
that phrase, but I think they need a Nobel Peace Prize of some sort.
As a young person when I forgot something it was rather embarrassing and
my mother or father would scold me and tell me I need to remember
things if I was ever going to grow up. Now that I am older, it is not
in the same thing, but rather an enabling thing.
Forgetting something enables me to handle life as it comes at me.
For example. The Gracious Mistress of the Parsonage will at times ask
me, “Did you remember...?” Of course, it does not matter what the
subject is because I will look at her with one of “my looks,” and she
will return it with one of “her looks.” She has both hands postured on
her hips and I have to back down. I can't find my hips.
“You know, my dear,” I always try to explain, “at my age I can't
remember very many things.”
She will stare at me for a moment and then say, “I think it's rather
strange that you can remember what you want to remember but you can
forget what you want to forget. I'm not sure age has anything to do
with it.”
I refuse to get into that tussle because when the wife of the house wins
the argument there is a sense of peace and serenity about the house. I
like peace and serenity.
I am afraid she has me figured out. If I am not mistaken, she had me
figure out the first day she met me. That is the difference between men
and women.
That aside, I am still so done with summer. I want to be able to share
my memories of this summer while they are still fresh in my mind. Of
course, I can always doctor up those memories to fit any occasion.
I was sharing one of my summer memories with someone one time when my
wife stepped in and said something like, “I sure don't remember it that
way.”
What is a husband to do? I am in a position where I can either embarrass
myself or embarrass my wife. Now if I embarrass myself, everybody will
have a laugh at my expense. If, however, I embarrass my wife, I am in
for some real trouble when we get home, still at my expense.
This past summer I kept a journal of some of the things that happened. I
was having a wonderful time jotting down what would hopefully turn out
to be marvelous memories to share with anyone who would listen.
I just cannot wait for summer to be over so I can go dipping into that
little journal and share some marvelous memories of my summer.
My journal was of such a nature that only I could read it. I did that on
purpose because I wanted nobody else to read it. This is my journal,
and it should be a private thing. So, during the summer I tried
abbreviated and used code words so nobody could figure out what I was
journaling about.
One problem. I kept it so private that when I went back over my journal
I did not know what I had written. I could not figure out anything in
that journal. Nothing made sense. I was a little disheveled about it
until that phrase came dancing into my mind, “selective memory.”
One thing I have learned through the years is, not very many people are
interested in the truth. If a memory sounds likely, you can sell it to
anybody.
I want it to be clearly understood that I always tell the truth, but not
necessarily in chronological order. I think the one who is telling the
memory has the privilege of arranging the memory to suit himself. After
all, it is my memory and I should tell it the way I want to tell it.
All I can say is, I am just about done with summer and I cannot wait for
it to get over so I can begin with my memories of this past summer. Old
boy, what memories I have.
Solomon understood this when he wrote, “Remember now thy Creator in the
days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw
nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them” (Ecclesiastes
12:1).
I may be done was summer, but thankfully, God is not done with me. And
what memories I have about Him.
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